


Netflix and Chill

by hitlikehammers



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Avengers Tower, Bad Puns, Bucky Likes to Cook, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Netflix and Chill, Sexing Supersoldiers, Steve Thinks It's Hot, netflix, slightly cracky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2018-04-17 10:52:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4663869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hitlikehammers/pseuds/hitlikehammers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In all honesty, the Team is mostly just kind of impressed that their resident fossils know the euphemism at all. Good for them, being meme-savvy and that shit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Netflix and Chill

**Author's Note:**

> This [BuzzFeed Article](http://www.buzzfeed.com/kirstenking/men-and-women-react-to-being-asked-to-watch-netflix-and-chil) was on my Newsfeed this morning.
> 
> So this happened during my lunchbreak. Whatever.
> 
> Not beta'd. Because I wrote it on my lunchbreak. Yes.

It’s none of Natasha’s business, of course. 

Which means it’s entirely Natasha’s business. Because she’s a goddamn spy, and if you’re mooning over each across the breakfast bar on the common floor, you are fair fucking game. 

Bucky’s rinsing dishes while Steve finishes his makeshift caprese: they’re making eyes across the countertop and Steve’s smiling in that way that only belongs to Barnes, that Natasha hadn’t seen before the light had snuck back into those ancient eyes, has answered to the name _Bucky_ for the first time and whispered _Stevie_ as Steve’s own eyes had started to well up; they’re making eyes, and Natasha might just vomit when Steve launches a cherry tomato at Bucky’s face when he glances away, when Bucky catches it in his teeth at the very last minute and smirks when it squirts juice and seeds back onto Steve’s cheek.

They’re disgusting. They really are.

“Plans for tonight?” Bucky asks idly as he chews his tomato and dries a plate. Steve makes a show of wiping his face, sighing heavily and pouting in Bucky’s direction, only letting up when Bucky just stares back, unimpressed.

“Not really,” Steve finally gives with a shrug. 

“Watch Netflix and chill?” Bucky suggests as he rinses out a glass.

And of course, where Natasha had been working very hard to ignore the endless-Honeymoon-phase across the room from her: that piques her interest.

“I’m game,” Steve says, chasing his last tomato to the edge of his plate. Bucky’s shutting off the tap when Steve tosses the little red fruit and starts to cackle when this time, it hits Bucky in the center of his forehead.

It makes contact, and drops pathetically into the now-empty sink. Bucky stares at it for a few seconds, shoulders tense.

Those shoulders would have set any of them on edge, once upon a time. Not now. And certainly not Steve, who is half-way to howling for some reason that Natasha figures is probably all about feelings and tenderness and love.

“Alright, punk,” Bucky growls, and Natasha can see, even from where she sits, how Steve’s pupils dilate as Bucky snaps the dishrag in Steve’s direction, a poor attempt at menacing. “Now you’re gonna get it.” 

Steve just catches the dishtowel and pulls Bucky across to kiss him, hard and long and with nothing to hide. Natasha watches for a moment, because for all that they’re disgusting she wholeheartedly approves of _not_ having to continue the futile project of hooking Steve up, but more than that: she’s impressed.

The Netflix doesn’t surprise her, of course: they’re both tech geniuses, so long as you don’t compare them to Stark.

It’s just that she wouldn’t have pegged them for meme-level familiarity with euphemisms like _that_.

They’re still swapping spit when Natasha takes her leave, but her smirk’s a little wider as she nods her blessing to the oblivious fossils sucking face behind her.

 _Get it, Rogers_ , she thinks, approvingly. _Tap that shit_.

________________________________________

“Explain this to me,” Sam says around a mouthful of the most impossibly delicious handmade pizza he’s ever tasted in his entire life. There’s something in the crust, but fuck if he knows what the magical ingredient actually is. 

“You were frozen for decades,” Sam shakes his head as he swallows, and looks down at his now-empty plate with real remorse. “And yet you cook like a gourmet. Was it mission prep?”

It has taken Sam a lot of convincing to treat Bucky’s past with the casual flippancy that Bucky himself had adopted, after the worst was behind him. Steve had told him that Bucky prefered it that way, though, that it was easier to make sense of if it wasn’t taboo, if it was just another shitstorm that life sometimes threw your way. So Sam had gotten used to it.

“Sorry to burst your bubble, flyboy,” Bucky smirks at him, still wearing the plaid apron Sam had gotten him for Christmas as he drops another slice on Sam’s plate. “I’m _all_ natural skill, Wilson.”

Sam fights an eye-roll, because Bucky’s just given him more of his culinary perfection, but does not miss the extra quirk in Steve’s lips, or the way Bucky winks at Steve in a way that should probably be censored around young children.

Jesus.

“It’s true,” Steve talks around the middle of that glorious, glorious crust. “It’s a family gift.”

“Remember my mama’s ham hock and beans?” Bucky asks, dripping nostalgia.

“Oh my god,” Steve moans, tossing his head over the back of his chair. “Oh my _god_.” 

Bucky saunters over to where Steve’s sitting, grabs his plate and leans down to nip at Steve’s sauce-covered lip.

“I learned the recipe before I moved out, y’know,” Bucky murmurs, sly as fuck. Once Sam got over his wariness with Bucky, and then his concern for the man’s recovery? He started really fucking envying Barnes’ god-given charm.

Steve moans again, but it’s caught up in something like a whimper, and Sam’s starting to think that maybe he should make a break for it. He’s starting to feel like a voyeur, and that’s not his style.

“Christ,” Sam goes back to the show he’s more interested in, just now. Which is the one on his plate. About to enter his mouth.

He’s the one moaning inappropriately, now. Except it’s not inappropriate, because this pizza. This _pizza_ .

But, no. _Seriously_.

“Want some more?” Bucky raises a brow at him from where he’s perched on the arm of Steve’s chair. 

It’s only then that Sam realizes he seems to have shoved the entire slice in his mouth. There’s cheese dangling down toward his chin. He slurps it up, slowly.

It’s not his proudest moment. But it’s also not his worst.

For the pizza, he’ll take it.

“C’mon, Sam,” Steve grins. “Have another. We were just gonna watch some Netflix and chill.”

“You’re more than welcome to join us,” Bucky says, and starts to get up to grab Sam’s plate and load it up once more.

Except then the words sink in. The precise wording, that is.

Sam’s glad that he’s swallowed the cheese already. It’s less dangerous to nearly-choke on air, after all.

Though not by much. 

“Naw,” Sam shakes his head, and maybe he laments the lost-promise of more pizza. Maybe.

“Naw, I shouldn’t.”

Because he’s seen enough super-soldiers grabbing on each other for one evening, thanks. He really, really has.

“Aww, come on!” Steve looks at him imploringly. Those fucking puppy-dog eyes.

“What, are you chicken?” Bucky waves a slice of the magnificent buffalo chicken pie he’d featured alongside the one with artichoke and avocado, and the third with classic pepperoni.

“Your puns are lame.”

Bucky’s grin widens. “Your _face_ is lame.” He drops the pizza on Sam’s plate. “Start the queue, Stevie. And you,” he points toward Sam. “You sit the fuck down and eat.”

“No, man, seriously,” Sam sets the plate on the coffee table and stands, stretches, and realizes how much he’s eaten from the cut of his jeans around his stomach alone. “I’m stuffed, and I got some paperwork to wrap up for the VA.”

The first part is true. The second part is also kind of true, in that the paperwork is optional and only for his own record keeping, but that’s whatever, y’know? So it’s fine. 

“Responsible adult,” Bucky shakes his head. “You’re nauseating.”

“You’re not gonna bail on me, right, Buck?” Steve reaches out for Bucky’s arm as Bucky passes where he sits, petulant as fuck.

“On Netflix night?” Bucky asks him, incredulous, as he leans to press lips to the top of Steve’s head. “Hell no, baby.”

Sam gathers his keys as his friends—and why, why does he have these two for friends?—start tangling tongues, and Sam is surprised that he has enough presence of mind to give them kudos, not just for enthusiasm but also for knowledge of popular culture. _Netflix and chill_ , man: those boys have come a long way.

“I’m out, fellas,” Sam says as he lets himself out. “Thanks for the chow.”

He doesn’t think they hear him.

By the time he gets home, Sam’s debating whether it would have been worth shielding his eyes from the peep-show, just to have more of that goddamn _pizza_.

It’s a toss up.

Maybe next time.

________________________________________

“Where are the geriatrics?” Tony says as he flops onto the couch with a bowl of popcorn in hand. He glances around, and the rest of the team follows suit, but Capsicle and his Klondike Bar are nowhere to be found.

“I think,” Bruce says, “that they were going upstairs to watch television.”

“It’s movie night!” Tony protests with a gesture that means nothing, objectively, but has a great deal of _feeling_ behind it, goddamnit, and that’s what counts. “Television is right fucking _here_!”

“I don’t know, Tony,” Bruce sighs. “They just said they wanted to go upstairs and watch Netflix.”

“We’ve got Netflix,” Tony points out, as the tell-tale screen loads. “What the hell—”

“Bruce,” Natasha interjects. “Do you remember exactly what it was they said?”

Bruce frowns. “I think they were tired, maybe? Stressed out?” He chews on his lip as he thinks. “They just wanted to relax, I think.”

“That what they said?” Wilson chimes in, an odd smirk on his face.

“Something like that?” Bruce’s head tilts, and he nods. “Yeah, yeah. Netflix and chill. That’s what they said. Didn’t think they were up for the gang tonight, I guess.”

Tony is pretty sure Christmas came early this year, when he hears those words. The dumbfounded look on Bruce’s face convinces him that his birthday’s on it’s way, as well.

“Bruce,” Tony leans in and stares Bruce down with all the gravity he can sustain when he wants to fucking crow about this shit; please oh please let this shit be the real deal.

“Bruce, I need you to focus. Is that _exactly_ what they said? Word for word?”

Bruce’s frown deepens, and he crosses his arms. “Yes. Netflix and chill, that was definitely it.”

Oh thank god, Tony doesn’t have to fight the way he starts to shake with  
utter fucking _glee_.

“You are _shitting_ me, Banner, you are _shitting me_ ,” Tony gasps as he slaps his knee before throwing himself flat onto the couch and spasming with the kind of mirth that only comes from a) knowing shit that he’s objectively not supposed to know and b) finding dirt on Captain Perfect and Robo-chef.

 

“J,” Tony chokes out. “What’s the mood-music up there?”

JARVIS pauses, seemingly reluctant, but gives in.

“Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes are currently watching Season Three of the ABC drama _LOST_.”

“Oh my _god_ ,” Tony says, eyes wide. “Do you think they’re having Hatch-sex? or Beach-sex? Or no, no, sex in the polar-bear compound, yes—”

“Tony,” Bruce tries to reason, looking baffled. Clint leans over and evidently explains what’s what, because Bruce’s eyes go comically wide as he grabs his glasses to nervously wipe them on his shirt. 

“Pull up their most recently watched items,” Tony demands, because this is just too much.

“Sir, I don’t think—”

“Items, JARVIS.”

If JARVIS could sigh, he would, just then, Tony knows it.

He’s grateful all over that he didn’t program that capacity in. Score.

“Most recently completed series is _The West Wing_ , sir.”

“Holy, _holy_ ,” Tony can’t fucking breathe, he’s laughing so hard. “Can you guys imagine?” He looks around at everyone, but he honestly doesn’t care what they have to say. Star-Spangled Man in the Star-Spangled Oval Office with Mr. Pseudo-Soviet, making love and not war.

“Can you guys even _imagine_ this shit?”

Oh, fuck him. But it is a _good_ night.

 

________________________________________

“So, do you like, roleplay?”

Steve is watching Bucky make breakfast. Contrary to popular belief, when left to his own wants, and desires—and he is, nowadays, with Bucky: Steve lives inside desires, and he hasn’t gone on a jog with Sam before dawn in over a fucking week, stays wrapped up in Bucky’s heat as New York grows cooler outside—but Steve is watching Bucky flip an omelette like a pro and it’s too fucking early for Tony’s indecipherable bullshit.

“What?”

Tony eyes him suspiciously, gaze flicking to Bucky, then back to Steve, then back to Bucky.

“Do you, like, hum “Hail To The Chief” while you’re going—”

“Stark.”

Steve looks over, sees Bucky threatening Tony with an outstretched hand, holding an egg-coated spatula.

“You’re confusing my boyfriend before breakfast. Go away.”

Tony frowns. “What about my omlette?”

Bucky snorts. “Have your robots make one for you.”

Tony opens his mouth, and is probably about to make a robot quip, because it’s Bucky’s left arm that holds the spatula, but Steve’s rising up and leaning forward and kissing Bucky hard, because Steve likes it when Bucky gets all protective, now that there’s not a physical need, and nothing to prove. He likes it a lot.

So sue him.

Bucky tastes like cheddar cheese and coffee. And Tony retreats, too, but that’s really just a bonus.

________________________________________

“Steven!” The unmistakable boom of a voice echoes behind them. “And James!”

They both turn, and Bucky lights up half for seeing their visitor, and half for the way Steve lights up in kind.

“Hey, Thor,” Steve greets the Asgardian. “Wasn’t expecting you.” 

“Good to see you, man,” Bucky reaches out to clasp Thor’s hand. “How are things that side of the Bifrost?”

“Well enough,” Thor says with a smile. “I am gladdened to see you both.”

“Take a seat,” Bucky gestures to the unoccupied couch next to where he and Steve are curled on the loveseat. “You want food?”

“Carbonara,” Steve raises his empty plate, and doesn’t hide the way he’s tracing a finger through the leftover sauce to get every last drop. “S’fucking spectacular.”

“Then I must accept!” Thor smiles broadly, and Bucky meets it before untangling from Steve and heading for the kitchen.

Bucky returns with a plate and a bottle of ale, which gains hearty approval from Thor.

“You hooked me, man,” Bucky says with a grin, because it’d been Thor who found it and stocked every refrigerator in the Tower with it the last time he’d come to Midgard. 

“That is good fortune, indeed!” Thor laughs, and settles in just as Steve opens up their queue.

It’s Netflix night.

Bucky’s leaning heavily into Steve’s body, watching Thor out of the corner of his eye as he lifts the fork to his lips—Bucky likes to see how people react to his cooking, okay?—when the affable, comfortable, perfectly lovely atmosphere is fucking eviscerated.

“What the fuck is this?”

Tony’s barging into their quarters, with Bruce on his heels protesting: “Thor, stop, they’re not decent for—”

And then it’s whole fam-damily on their fucking floor. Awesome.

“Oh,” Steve says, mild as he can manage, but Bucky knows him well enough to hear the edge. “Tony. I thought you guys were playing MarioKart.” 

Tony’s eyes narrow.

“And I thought you were fucking like bunnies, so I guess we’re even.”

They all turn to him, mouths a little bit open: even Thor, with the fettucini still dangling from his utensil. 

“You,” Steve swallows, shakes his head; “what?”

“We told you what we were coming up here to do,” Bucky cuts in, because what the actual _fuck_. “It’s Netflix night.”

“We don’t miss Netflix night,” Steve says, because that’s a fucking fact.

“That is not what you said,” Tony says, statement of truth like he’s right, when he’s fucking _not_ , because it’s time for _Netflix_.

“That is exactly what I said,” Steve spells out slowly.

“That is, in fact, exactly what he said,” Bucky confirms.

“No,” Tony protests again, looking frustrated in a way that borders on angry, on betrayal. “No, you said, and I quote,” he clears his throat dramatically.

“ _We’re just gonna head upstairs,_ ,” and Tony’s Steve-voice is for shit, it really, really is. “ _Watch Netflix and chill for the night._ ”

Steve frowns deeply, in that way that makes Bucky want to stop everything and kiss away the lines it draws on Steve’s face.

“How is that different?”

“ _Watch Netflix_ ,” Tony repeats again, with emphasis that makes no sense and a flush on his cheeks that makes him look manic. Or else, more manic than usual. “And _chill_.”

“Netflix,” Bucky gestures to the television, with the clearly-present logo. “Chill.” He streches out and pulls Steve closer, forces himself to go boneless and sprawled across the cushions.

“See?”

“Is he okay?” Steve points at Tony, look from Bruce to Nat as Tony’s eyes bug out just a little.

“Barnes,” Natasha takes the reins, her voice cutting through the befuddlement. “Tell me what this means to you.”

Bucky watches as she slinks over and sits on the edge of the couch, leaning into him.

“Hey,” she purrs, leaning even closer. “Wanna watch Netflix, and chill?”

Bucky frowns.

“You’re trying to distract me with Netflix and the idea of casual relaxation while you get close enough to my person in order to extract information for some likely-nefarious purpose,” he says, because that’s exactly what Natasha would do. Because she’s Natasha.

Bucky fights the urge to pat himself down and make sure no items or intel _are_ actually on his person. He’s let his guard down these days, she may have been able to scoop him.

Not that he’ll admit that out loud, of course.

“Well, fuck.”

Tony says it, and he looks like he just lost his dog, or someone told him Santa wasn’t real. If a guy like Tony ever believe in Santa.

“Fuck what?” Steve asked, still bewildered, but growing impatient.

“Not _you_ fuck _him_ , obviously!”

“Dude,” Steve says, looking scandalized, and honestly? It’s not all put-on for show. “Not on Netflix night!”

It’s true. Netflix night is sacred.

“Or else, not until after Netflix night becomes Netflix morning,” Bucky amends with a grin and a bump of Steve’s shoulders, and Steve goes a little bit pink, but his smile goes a lot-a-bit wide as he nuzzles Bucky’s cheek with the bridge of his nose and hums low: content.

“It’s a euphemism.”

“Hmm?” Bucky murmurs, hearing Bruce, but only half in that space with Steve breathing closer against his jaw.

“Netflix and chill,” Bruce is continuing on, but he stops. Stammers, maybe. “It’s...well, it means...”

“I means you’re going to put Netflix on and fuck.”

Leave it to Natasha to set it straight.

Steve pulls back, and sits up. Bucky shifts a bit, and stares at the group, that’s staring back at them.

Thor is finishing his carbonara, and Bucky takes a second to be proud of the fact that he cooked damned good enough for a god.

He takes a second, and then like clockwork: he and Steve start to chuckle.

The faces of their teammates are fucking _grand_.

“We’re grown ass men, Romanoff,” Bucky finally says. “I wanna fuck my best guy? I’ll say as much.” He pulls Steve in and kisses his cheek.“Ain’t gonna beat around the bush about it.”

“‘ _Netflix and chill’_ , really?” Steve huffs. “What the _hell_?”

“Kids these days, Stevie,”Bucky shakes his head. “Ain’t never gonna understand.”

“It’s just silly,” Steve shrugs, like the idea disappoints him for its lack of sophistication, or imagination. “Gimmicky. Like, I don’t say _it’s morphin’ time_ when I suit up for a fight.”

Tony’s jaw drops. 

“It’s _morphin’ time_?”

“Childhood favorites of your generational demographic,” Steve shrugs, waves a dismissive hand. “It’s a whole category on our account.”

“On Netflix,” Bucky enunciates dramatically. “For us to watch. When we _chill_.”

“We put in our actual-thawed-out age,” Steve clarifies. “Made more sense, for this.”

“The 90s were a thing, apparently,” Bucky says, and give Steve a sidelong glance. Steve, in turn, snorts.

“Apparently, yeah.” And Bucky’d sell the moon and drown the stars for that smile. He’d do it, here and now.

The team’s still staring. Thor’s already gotten up to fill his plate again. Bucky’s got the love of his goddamn life pressed right up against him.

It’s Netflix night. 

“We’re starting The Blacklist,” Bucky finally says, snuggling into Steve and grabbing for the remote.

“Comes very highly recommended,” Steve chimes in, and they both train their eyes on the screen, leaving the peanut gallery to gape at a loss as long as they want.

“You guys coming or going or what?”

________________________________________

The next month is scattered with a number of impromptu exits by two snarky-ass, point-proving super soldiers, prefaced by such memorable lines as: 

“Gonna go bone my sexy-as-hell boyfriend, now.”

“Right guys, time to ride this jerk ‘til he passes the fuck out.”

“Think I’ll fuck that punk against the shower wall until he can’t walk right. Serum or no.”

“I’m out, ladies and gentlemen. My guy’s looking like he needs some lovin’.”

“Stevie, babydoll, I can suck you here or upstairs, your pick.”

No one wants to recall that time when toys got mentioned. No one. 

Ever.

And Natasha called it: those boys were tech geniuses, the two of them. No question. Could figure Hydra tech and weapons interfaces and reprogram your mobile when you jailbroke the fucker and didn’t want to tell Tony what you did to StarkPhone.

But she was wrong about their being second-best. To anyone.

Because the sound-canceling tech that JARVIS apparently employed as a courtesy on an as-necessary basis? Had been mysteriously overridden on Steve and Bucky’s floor. And fuck if Tony could get it up and running again.

The Avengers would be hearing those moans in their heads on their goddamn deathbeds. Natasha was _certain_ of it.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://hitlikehammers.tumblr.com).


End file.
